Unexpected Happenings
by TheEyeOfThePheonix
Summary: After a case went wrong, John's not the same. Others don't seem to notice that them treating him the way they do is rather demoralizing, Sherlock is different though. Sherlock is not the Sherlock we all know, still deducing but different. Just what did happen to Doctor John Watson... Also Hurt/Comfort, Rated T to be safe.
1. Chapter 1

AN: This is inspired by me actually watching half an hour of brain dulling Big Brother (No offense if you watch it!).  
Actually I got bored so I went into the living room and my ma' started getting angsty (:p) about how a deaf person was getting hate, looking like he was set to be evicted.  
And there was only one person who would talk slowly enough so they could hear/understand.  
So yep, not sure if this has been done before, but here it goes...oh and could you possibly review to let me know what you think! Thanks!

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.

Change can be expected,  
But some change is wholly unexpected.  
Some can come as a nice surprise,  
Some can bite you in the ass when you least expect it.  
~ Own

* * *

**Unexpected Happenings ~ Chapter One ~ The Changeling**

A gun shot rang out.  
The sound ricocheted around the tiled room.  
Reverberating throughout the disused office block.

"Stay still, stay still John!" A rich deeply Victorian voice called out as they advanced towards the man now identified as John, John Watson that is.

A controlled shrilly scream was let out by John, he'd just realised what had happened.

The man with the billowy jacket recoiled at the sound, his hand had grabbed his phone from the deep depths of the occupiers pocket and was now dialling that all too familiar three digit number, the fact that it was all too familiar seemed rather frightening, rather wary, alarming.

"John, just sit down…" "There are _no_ chairs, Sherlock!" Obviously this John fellow was getting rather wired, and this Sherlock guy had notably not been thinking all too well; otherwise, he would have noted that there were in fact no chairs in the surrounding vicinity.  
John had been wired, as I stated just now, he had interrupted The Sherlock Holmes, The one and _only_ Consulting Detective. Sherlock gave him a dignified look, how dare he, with his miniscule brain and constricting thoughts, interrupt him.

John didn't get a chance to reply as the wailing of sirens from down the road had broken through the sound depriving walls, the police sirens also joining in on the ruckus, the assault of the ears.

* * *

The hospital workers had tried to get John onto a stretcher, he of course, had declined. He would stand, brave and tall, and walk to the yellow and green patchwork ambulance by himself. The paramedics cast ailing looks at their patient's companion, Sherlock, he stared blankly at them, obviously he wasn't going to try and change his bloggers mind.  
They deduced that he would not be any help at all to them, though they had no choice but to allow him to come along on the drive to their destined hospital. Much to the chagrin of the man himself, Sherlock had declined, saying that he had to continue on the case, even if it meant without his blogger by his side.  
He'd only begrudgingly agreed to go along when DI Lestrade had showed up on the scene and insisted that Sherlock accompany John to the hospital where they could get their statements, Sherlock had of course tried to talk his way out of it but Lestrade had just pushed him into the back of the ambulance. Sherlock had repeatedly asked 'What are you doing?!" he was alarmingly surprised and confused.  
He got no reply as the doors were soon closed on his protesting features.

* * *

Sherlock sat on one of the benches in the back of the ailing ambulance, John was sat in a wheelchair, he really had protested to the ends of the earth but to no avail. Sherlock didn't really get why John was protesting so much, he got to ride in a vehicle that was allowed to, some extent, boulder other vehicles out of the way! Sherlock felt weird though, he felt he should be pacing, he normally would be; he felt he should be following his case although something that sounded vaguely familiar to Johns' voice was telling him that it wasn't a good idea to think of something like that right now.

* * *

He could feel that niggling sensation, it was calling to him, and he had no way to suppress it. No supplies; no cigarettes and no patches to control it. He felt that, maybe, if there were people outside of the damned hospital, he may at least be able to breathe in the home from home smell. And to his luck, there were.  
He followed as John was pushed towards the double doors; John looked a little more down hearted than usual, Sherlock questioned himself whether this was weird. As they approached the smoking area Sherlock breathed in, a small amount of relief and an undecided amount of activity forayed into his mind, until a bored strong stern call of "Sherlock" was heard by the second-hand smoker. He pulled an annoyed grimace over his features, trust John to notice this.  
John had indeed caught sight of the cold-turkey man, John had noticed that Sherlock was really getting out of hand, he couldn't just go round sniffing, up close and personal, out in the open where there were security, _security_ guards stationed at the doors! John dug his heels into the ground stopping him from being wheeled else where. He fixed Sherlock with a steely glare and Sherlock immediately knew he meant business. He hurried up the little ramp and passed the wheelchair bound figure, their figure was slowly collapsing, and they seemed exhausted maybe? But then again, John always wanted to sleep, always seemed to want to eat too; these were exactly Sherlock's thoughts as he followed the paramedics to a ward.

The ward was called Elmstead Unit, named after a place in the borough, it had gauzy green curtains surrounding statutory beds, a window at the end of the aisle allowed light to flit though it. A few rows of lights were strung up around the place. Sherlock immediately didn't like it; there were too many places to hide.

John's doctor came around a few minutes later, greeting them kindly. Sherlock stood up to shake the mans hand, which may seem very weird to some as it was normally John who would be doing this while Sherlock skulked on a seating apparatus. "Ah, Dr Watson I see, my pleasure to meet another one…" Out of the ordinary, John didn't reply, he hadn't seemed to have heard. It wasn't like John to be ignorant and rude, that was most definitely Sherlock's role, he wasn't even rude to Sherlock on purpose; well for the most part he wasn't.

"Interesting, just let me see a second…" The doctor, Dr. Tonnmer was his name, grabbed into his pocket and produced a little torch; it reminded Sherlock of the ones they used frequently on cases. D. Tonnmer advanced on John and stuck the torch near his ear, John lurched away in surprise; hadn't he noticed what was happening?! The doctor tried to signal that it was okay, he failed miserably. "For god's sake…" Sherlock sighed as he signalled the sign language for a barrage of information, making sure not to let the former army doctor know what the worry was.

* * *

After a few tests, the doctor returned, his face showed absolutely nothing. Sherlock would want to applaud him for how levelled his persona seemed, but it didn't feel like it was the right time, the right place. And he was sure John would agree with his reasoning, encourage it, celebrate it even.

Sherlock studied the doctor, he saw him run his index finger up and down the side of the clipboard, it was fraying, obviously this happened a lot. He was nervous, he had news; bad news…

"…Mr Holmes, I'm sorry but you'll have to convey what I am saying, just for the time being, seeing as we're in a hospital; certain sound levels have to be respected. Can you do that for me?" Sherlock nodded, his dark curls bobbing along with his decision.

"Your friend, he seems to have been traumatized in the past," Sherlock nodded, he knew this already. ", well, we think today's shooting may have triggered action in the cerebral section of the brain, the part that…" "...Holds memories, yes of course I know." Sherlock interrupted, now John would not be at all surprised at this.  
"Yes, well it would seem that another part was also damaged, we took a scan of his brain and we found that the…" "Temporal Lobe is damaged, breakage to cartilage's most certainly." "Yes, your friend, he seems not to hear when we talk, up close he may be able to hear if spoken to slowly and louder than normal. Of course, we aren't sure if he will ever regain full hearing, we don't want to get your hopes up, but there's a possibility…"

* * *

**So, who saw that coming?**

**And will our Dr Watson ever be able to hear again?**

**~TEOTP~**


	2. Chapter 2

AN: Did you, did you see the new S3 preview! Ha ha, moustache! Okay, so new chapter, let's see what you think this time.. Though I must warn you, I don't think this is the best thing I've wrote as it doesn't move the story on by much. Oh, and a **Warning – **one swear. And Review please!

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, or the moustache!

You can't run away from trouble.  
There ain't no place that far.  
~Uncle Remus

**Unexpected Happenings ~ Chapter 2 ~**

John had been discharged from hospital a few days later…

Though the doctor had thought it best for Sherlock to be charged with breaking the world changing news.  
To any who knew him, they would think that he would do such a thing without question.  
But for some unearthly reason, he felt his throat constrict, willing him not do such a thing.

For, it was a doctor's prerogative, it was their job; this was one of the reasons that they had been employed for; to break earth shattering news.  
And to pass the buck, surely would be seen as an act of cowardice?!

Sherlock always knew that for a doctor to keep his head, they should never ever care.  
They should break said news and then walk away, not letting anything interfere with their extra-curricular life.  
But he was always there when John returned from his day job at the local Doctors' Surgery. If it had been a bad day, he always noticed that John's eyes would be hard and resilient (trying to stay strong and carry on the normal vitae that should be acquitted with suchness). He would slowly disintegrate into quietness. Shallow breathing, talking soundlessly to himself; all paired with staring off into space. (People often wondered if that had been literal, that thinking of being in space was an escape, we don't know if this was ever the case; John never talked of these moments)

And now Sherlock was tasked with having to break monumental news. To his blogger. Of all people.

Sherlock's conscience was slowly gnawing away at his brain.  
He couldn't help but think that this was all his fault.  
After all, he had continued to entice the Doctor with promises of dangerous escapades; and that's exactly what he'd got; he hadn't lied. John had known there were risks, but yet, he'd still come along.

Part of Sherlock, a small part beaten down to the darkest and murkiest depths of his soul, wished that he'd never even met John.  
But then again, another part of him told him that John would still be suffering. He'd still be suffering from PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder). He would still be limping, stuck in an army hospital room.  
He wouldn't be living, he would just be existing.  
At least when he was with Sherlock, he'd actually been living, being an active part of society.  
But none of this mattered; it still came down to the crux.  
Dr Tonnmer had passed the responsibility onto Sherlock.  
He had to tell him.

* * *

He really didn't want to. He was contemplating refusing, but his mind was made up. Though it was only made up when he received a text. And not surprisingly, it was from his arch nemesis, his brother, Mycroft.

**~As I have already told you, sentiment is a weakness, and you don't seem to lack that dear brother. Get on with it, or I shall have to punish you as I see fit ~ MH**

Sherlock wasn't scared of the threat; he was not scared of his brother.  
But he was scared of being conceived as weak.

* * *

He'd been away from John's room for a little while now, getting himself a coffee with sugar included. It was almost an act of psyching himself out for the inevitable.

He gingerly grasped the door handle; it had obviously been opened numerous times before. The bottom third of the door handle was scuffed and muted. I wasn't as old as the other doors on this floor; it had been part of a new expansion. Two years old.  
Sherlock shook his head of these deductions, he couldn't be thinking of such trivial matters at this precise moment in time. (Though normally he wouldn't refer to his deductions merely as trivial matter. It was his Work, after all.)

John was awake as Sherlock entered, although he feigned fatigue.  
Sherlock could tell by his breathing, it was slightly stunted as he tried to perfect the steady beats of a person who was seldom asleep.  
No one fooled Sherlock. Well, this was almost true. (As, if you ask John, he would agree that his deducing of emotions was utter garbage!)

Sherlock didn't sit, he just stood there. Lurking by the door. As, if he sat, he may never recover. Where as, if he stood the near the door, he could escape, if the situation ever aroused; quite easily. You may call this cowardice, but to him it was a situation dealt well with.  
So Sherlock had decided that he would kick the leg of the bed, startling the occupier, their eyes springing open,  
His plan had worked like a treat, he needed the person to be alert…and looking.

"John…" He signalled with his hands, drawing a 'J' shape across his left palm. John nodded; a look of confusion crossed his face. John had thought that his hearing would have come back after an hour. After the rather loud blast from the gun. But really, he should have noticed, he was the Doctor in the pack.

But maybe he didn't want to notice.

He'd reasoned with himself that he hadn't heard a noise in a good few hours as no one had been in to talk to him.  
But then again, maybe he shouldn't have tried to mistake the fact that Sherlock's hand signalling was a bit of a weird joke, after all, Sherlock really wasn't the best with diagnosing people's emotions and how to act whence they were shown.

"John," Sherlock repeated again, grappling for his blogger's attention. "You…are deaf… Not permanently, no, no." He'd signalled this, just remembering to add the fact that it could potentially be permanent.

-  
John's face went stoic.

-

"Oh fuck…" John's spoke for the first time, an emotionless, stunted garble. His voice sounded different as he tried to level it out.

Sherlock finally sat on the plastic white chair, sitting back and sipping his coffee.

* * *

AN: Chapters will get more interesting, I promise, scout's honour. Though there won't be too much action for obvious reasons, well they're obvious to me, but then i know where this is going. And yes, the stuff with the bottom third of the handle was influenced by the pilot and first ep.


End file.
